


Draconis

by Driehoek



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games), Titanfall (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, on typhon itself, so like. during titanfall 2, takes place during the battle of typhon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:55:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26026060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Driehoek/pseuds/Driehoek
Summary: They knew it had never been their plan to actually go hunting on Typhon. It was a planet that housed nothing but research facilities and engineers, for the gods’ sake. It had felt safe to tell themselves that they just wanted to go there to hunt, and not to visit one of the few places that carried memories of their parents.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	Draconis

Even though they were downwind, the prowler could still somehow sense their presence, right through the thick leaves of the bushes in front of them. From their many hours of tracking these beasts in the wild, they had gathered that prowlers could use the plates on their body not only to appear larger and more imposing, but to amplify sounds from around them as well.

That was exactly what this prowler was doing. It slowly cocked its head, the plates around its head and neck rising up, synchronised with the movements of its head.

They knew how to move soundlessly, their steps muffled on the dark moss, and they were completely sure they weren’t making any sound at all when they slowly raised their machete, their arm bending so, so slowly that the sturdy fabric of their coat didn’t even rustle.

And just like that, the prowler’s head shot in their direction, its bright yellow eyes piercing straight through the vegetation in front of them. It sunk through its front legs, readying itself to leap, splayed its headplates out wide and made them rattle while it erupted in a roar, a terrible, layered, screeching sound.

Bloodhound raised their blade, catching the much larger predator as it lunged forward, sinking the tip in its shoulder. They were immediately thrown to the ground like a rag doll on impact, pain shooting out from their ribs to their spine, and all of their breath escaped from their lungs in a single deep grunt. Oh, this was bad.

They were pinned against the ground. The prowler tried to bite at their face, but they grabbed both ends of their machete with their gloved hands and pressed it flat against the prowler’s neck, anything to keep those jaws with needle sharp teeth away from them. Its hot, rancid breath fogged up the lenses of their goggles. They thrashed and thrashed and thrashed against the animal’s grip, but it was no use. The machete was starting to cut through their glove, the animal’s claws were starting to dig through their coat. 

Sweat trickled down the back of their neck. They felt the first small dribbles of white hot, unrestrained panic pool in their stomach. All wasn’t lost, but the longer they needed to struggle, the less likely it was for them to survive this encounter. They always persevered, but when it came to a contest in stamina between them and an animal that had several hundreds of pounds on them, they knew they’d lose.

“Allfather, I trust in your guidance,” they whispered. 

In one swift motion, they pulled up their knees and kicked the prowler in the chest with both legs simultaneously. It didn’t _quite_ hurt the animal, but while it staggered they had just enough time and momentum to roll over into a standing position, finding their footing and dashing a few strides back as to not get that close to the prowler’s unforgiving jaws again.

The prowler uttered a deep growl, slowly circling the clearing, its headplates completely focused on every sound they made. They flipped their machete into a reverse grip, mirroring the animal’s circling movements. For a few brief moments, they weren’t hunter and prey, they were two wild beasts waiting, watching, waiting, muscles coiled for the inevitable confrontation.

When it lunged again, they were prepared. They moved their machete down to deflect the prowler’s attack, slashing it across its muzzle. It screeched in pain, an ear piercing sound. As its attention was diverted by the pain, they grabbed the plates behind its head with their free hand and they manoeuvred themselves onto its back.

The prowler screeched, roared, disoriented with its sense of hearing distorted and its opponent out of view. It tried to buck them off like a wild horse. They held on, their legs an iron grip around the animal’s back.

They leaned forward, over its neck, flipped their machete in their hand again into a normal grip, and pulled the sharp end straight across the prowler’s neck. Its warm blood gushed across their hands, and its shrieks turned into gurgles as it sunk down onto the ground. It thrashed a few times as life flowed from its body, but they held onto the animal’s neck with both arms while it was dying, a morbid parody of an embrace.

The prowler sighed. Sighed again. And then there was silence.

They sat up, sucking in their breath as if they had been underwater for the entire duration of the encounter. Their hands trembled as they tried to stand up, but their legs immediately buckled under their weight and they let themselves drop to their knees. Dark spots ate at the edges of their vision. With the adrenaline clearing from their body, they felt all the small cuts on their body burn like a thousand small suns, they felt all the fear that they had ignored come up to the surface.

“ _Allfur blessaður_ ,” they whispered hoarsely, their mouth dry like cotton. Their hands trembled as their fingers found the control panel for their respirator and turned one of the dials to increase oxygen flow. With their eyes closed and their face in their hands, they allowed themselves a few moments to catch their breath and recover from their close encounter with a painful, slow death. 

It had been close this time. It had been far too close for comfort this time. They hadn’t been focused enough, and they knew why. The Allfather had looked out for them this time, but this didn’t want to wear his patience thin. They knew he had a plan for them, but who was to say he wouldn’t abandon them when his chosen hunter failed to live up to his expectations? That thought filled them with dread.

A single caw drew their attention, and they looked up. Artur had entered the clearing from above, lowering himself in semicircles, the raven’s impressive wingspan didn’t allow him to circle directly down to the ground.

They extended their arm to him to provide him a landing spot, but Artur ignored them, instead landing on the prowler. He cawed again, it sounded annoyed.

They frowned. Of course. They rose to their feet, their legs still a tad unsteady, and walked over to the prowler’s head. With their hand, still covered in the animal’s orange blood, they closed its glazed eyes, leaving two shiny streaks on the animal’s dark skin.

“ _Til Valhall_.”

They looked back to Artur. “That good enough for you?”

The bird had started to shine his feathers with his beak, and uttered a series of content short sounds as a response.

Evening fell across the woods. They gathered wood for a small fire, built a shelter from the sheets and rope in their backpack, and finally partially stripped the prowler from its skin to access the few edible muscles of its body. They cooked some of it to eat, and cured some of it to add to their dwindling food reserves.

In the light of the fire, they spread their coat out to dry it from sweat and repaired it where it had been ripped by the prowler’s claws, tended to their thankfully minor wounds, they cleaned their knives and set up a small construction to collect rain that was bound to fall later that night.

Before they were settling down to rest, they spread their laminated map across the mossy ground.

“Look, Artur.” They pointed to the map, waiting until they had Artur’s attention. Oh, he would understand, but he wouldn’t care much. They mainly wanted to explain their own thoughts to themselves.

“This is our current position.” They pointed to the woods, approximately 75 miles from Hemera, one of the very few residential cities on Typhon. “It took us almost 5 days to get here from Hemera, 2 days longer than expected. We were about three quarters of the way through our rations, but today’s game allows us to last a bit longer.”

They measured the distance with their fingers. “We could make it back to Hemera on our current rations, or…”

They didn’t want to look to the upper right corner of the map. They averted their eyes, their throat squeezing shut.

Artur made a deep sound, it sounded like he was concerned. He moved his head against their arm.

They took a deep breath. “Or we could try to make it past the mountain range, to Hyperion.”

They looked at the upper right corner of the map.

Hyperion sprawled out northeast from the small mountain range, the jagged edges on the map indicating structures that were very obviously man made. It formed a shrill contrast with the surrounding mountain ranges and jungles.

They knew what these structures looked like up close. They didn’t remember every intricate detail, but they remembered being scared at how tall the middle building seemed to tower over them, they remembered scraping their knee while skipping over one of the pavements, they remembered Johann coming from behind one of the sliding glass doors, his gloomy expression immediately lighting up when he saw his child, and spreading his arms out wide so they could run up to him and he’d lift them up and spin them around and around and around tell them he missed them and…

They noticed their goggles fogged up as they looked at the map, silent tears dripping down their cheeks. With a frustrated sound, they removed them and wiped the salty trails from their cheeks.

They weren’t even complete memories, they had been too young for that. They were moments frozen in time, just a slideshow of pictures, repeated over and over. On some days, they just shrugged and carried on with their life. On other days, there were smells or sounds that made tears burn behind their eyes immediately, their stomach an empty and dark abyss.

Hyperion had been the last place their parents had been stationed for their work before they moved to Talos. They had somehow remembered the name phonetically for all these decades, and when they had acquired a map of the mountain continent of Typhon, they had instantly recognised the name.

They knew it had never been their plan to actually go hunting on Typhon. It was a planet that housed nothing but research facilities and engineers, for the gods’ sake. It had felt safe to tell themselves that they just wanted to go there to hunt, and not to visit one of the few places that carried memories of their parents. Every time they thought about them, they looked a little different, a little less recognisable, as if the memories were being sanded down, details starting to fade. They wanted to wash themselves over with it once more, so they could finally let the memories of the nearly faceless ghosts rest and accept that this was a part of their life they would never, ever get to return to.

Artur had cuddled up to them, his beak rubbing against their arm, providing comfort. They smiled wryly, scratched the back of his head. “Hyperion, then?”

They added a few small fires around their campsite, strung their food supply up to a tree away from their shelter and settled down for the night. The fight with the prowler had tired them out, and they slept soundly.

That was, until some time after the break of dawn.

They woke up with all of their muscles crawling underneath their skin, their body fine tuned to go from deep sleep into heavy physical exertion in a matter of seconds. As always, they were a bit disoriented when waking up, but from spending so much time in the wilderness they had learnt to trust their instincts when sleeping in the woods.

What was it? They soundlessly emerged from their tent, machete in their hand, staying low as to not spread too much scent that could be picked up by an animal.

The clearing and the area immediately around it were empty, they knew that with a few glances. Upon closer inspection it was clear there hadn’t been any animal here in the past night. There were no new tracks in the clearing, no broken twigs in the shrubbery.

But then… what had alarmed them?

Artur cawed. They looked back at him. He was perched on one of the ropes holding the tent up, looking disheveled, his feathers puffed up in either annoyance or fear.

And that’s when they saw all the fires around their campsite had gone out but were still smoking. Their food supply was swinging on its rope. A low rumble resonated uncharacteristically clearly through the forest.

It couldn’t have been an animal, the knapsack was swinging far too violently for that. No animal in Typhon’s sparse fauna could have hit it _that_ hard, at _that_ height. And an animal couldn’t have put out all those fires recently enough for them to still be smoking from the embers without leaving a trace.

Then there was the droning sound. They listened intently. It was definitely a large aircraft of some kind, and it was moving away from them slowly.

A series of explosions, way too close for comfort, made them stagger back a few steps. Artur made an alarmed sound, flew up with flapping wings. 

_Due east of your position, twenty minutes by foot._

They could never get used to words being forced into their mind like that, yet this was something Artur had done as long as they’d known him. It just happened. He understood what they said, and sometimes, sometimes he spoke back.

“Thank you, Artur,” they muttered.

They were skilled in packing up their gear in a very short time, and within ten minutes they had taken down their shelter, put on their boots, coat and respirator, and packed all their belongings into their backpack. Their back still ached, a lingering reminder from the fight yesterday, but it was nothing compared to what it could have been, so they didn’t complain. Besides, a twenty minute walk wasn’t all that horrible compared to the massive distance they’d walked in the past few days.

When they leaned their head back, they could see thick, dark smoke curling up high into the sky, approximately from the location Artur had indicated.

Their boots sunk ankle deep into the damp moss in this part of the forest, and they found that this combined with the anticipation of what might lie ahead of them made their feet feel unusually heavy.

Would they find part of the woods ablaze? No, this forest was too damp for that, they had struggled to find dry wood yesterday, forest fires wouldn’t be able to last here.

The low hum of the aircraft flying over had subsided. They’d ask Artur for an indication, but the raven was stubborn and normally didn’t just answer direct questions like that, only shared information he deemed necessary. He was flying just underneath the crowns of the trees, the air audibly rushing through his feathers with each agile turn and tumble. The leaves overhead cast irregular shadows on the ground, and they found they had to watch their step more than usual.

As they got closer to the position indicated by Artur, the air grew heavy with the smell of gasoline. They frowned. Maybe a smaller ship had crashed from an aircraft carrier?

There was actually some smoke hanging between the tree trunks now, which promptly made them close the air filters to their respirator and increase their oxygen flow once again. They could see some trees crooked, split in half or fallen over altogether at the horizon now.

As they cautiously walked closer, it became apparent what had happened here. They sucked in their breath as they looked out over another, forcefully formed clearing.

Dozens, maybe hundreds of trees had been struck to the ground by a large aircraft that had apparently crash landed here not too long ago. It was covered in soot, one of its thruster engines had apparently exploded forcefully, leaving a black circle on the soil that was at least one hundred foot wide. Its exterior was charred, damaged, but they could make out half of the name that was written on the gigantic side of the ship.

-ACONIS.

The area around the ship was eerily quiet, save for the crackling of several small fires, they noticed as they walked around some more, which made it certain that there were likely no survivors. With a nod, they pressed their fist to their heart as a quick gesture of respect to those who had been aboard.

The ship had probably caused a shock wave when it crashed and one of its engines subsequently exploded, which really did correspond with all of the weird unexplained sights at their campsite earlier that morning. That was one mystery less.

But as large and imposing as the ship was, it didn’t keep their attention for long.

At the very edge of the clearing, another machine was laying on the dirt. It was half buried in the ground, leaving a long, deep trail behind where it had crash landed, plowing through the dirt and coming to a final stop against the trunk of a particularly old tree.

Bloodhound swallowed thickly, all their senses on edge as they inched closer to the metallic beast.

“An iron Goliath sent by the gods,” they said, their words sounded foreign in their own ears. 

That was exactly what it looked like. The machine was heavily damaged, but it had limbs and a circular torso, with one eye flickering bursts of binary and large teeth painted underneath it. 

“ _Helvítis_ ,” they whispered breathlessly, extending their arm for Artur to land on. Artur didn’t land. He stayed in the air, cawing nervously.

They looked up at him.

“No further.”

All their muscles tensed up and they reflexively crouched down onto the ground, reaching for their machete, scanning the area around them. They saw motion at the treeline.

Just by the treeline, where the trees were mostly intact, there was a man. He was lying on the ground, propping up his torso with one arm and shakily aiming a p2016 at them with the other.

He was no threat. They could immediately tell he was no threat, even though he wore a helmet that obscured all of his facial features. His orange gear was completely soaked with blood in a few places, the gun in his hand wavering violently. He would barely have enough strength to pull the trigger, should it come to that.

They crawled a bit closer, still half on hands and feet, to be able to leap to the side if the man should have a lapse of judgment.

“No closer,” the man growled again, more urgency in his voice this time. “I swear to god, I will-”

That short sentence proved to be too much of an exertion in his condition. He coughed, an ugly, raspy, wet sound, and fell back on the ground, clutching the bloody part of his side with a tired groan.

“I mean no harm,” they said softly. They rose to their feet, their hands open with the palms forward, anything to show they did not plan to attack him. 

The man looked up at them, and even with his cracked, glowing visor covering his face they could feel his pain, his fear, his utter despair.

They looked up as the metal beast uttered a series of broken, artificial sounds, and before they could even take a step in its direction, the man aimed his p2016 at them again.

" _Don't_ touch her," he spat through gritted teeth, his voice unsteady with emotion now. He seemed a lot more determined to actually fire the weapon than he had before, so they took a very obvious step back to show him they had no intention of going near the machine— _her_ , apparently.

"Can I help you?" they asked tentatively, slowly walking toward the man again. He seemed less interested in his own wellbeing than that of the machine apparently, because he lowered his pistol again.

"Not much you can do, 'm afraid," he drawled. "They got me good. One in the thigh. Two in the torso. Probably have hours, if not minutes."

"I could try to help you," they blurted out, not sure where their sudden sympathy with the man came from. He looked helpless and in pain, and not just from his wounds.

The man let out a wry chuckle, which was immediately punished by a painful sounding coughing fit. He leaned back again, a shaky expletive escaping.

They had crawled closer, and now knelt next to him. His gear was intricate, layered. One of his front pockets was adorned with a white ram's skull on an inverted red triangle. 

With a shock they realised they had seen this type of gear before. Not in this colour, not with this exact patch on the front, but they had seen it before.

Memories flooded their brain, memories of a dark cave, of the light of their lantern revealing the clothed, skeletal remains of someone who had died a lonely death. Whatever this uniform was, it signified some sort of function. They weren't interested in either party of the military conflict that had torn the people of the Frontier apart, but now they wish they were, now they wish they had enough knowledge to be able to categorise those memories.

They quickly assessed his wounds again. From the position of the bullet holes, no major organs were hit. The wound on his thigh was questionable, but if the femoral artery had been as much as nicked, he wouldn't have been breathing by now.

"Not much you can do, kid," the man sighed again. "Just leave me here. It's better." He nodded his head toward the machine. "She isn't gonna last much longer, and I don't wanna… I can't…"

"Is it… is she… alive?" they asked, nervously eyeing the machine again.

"You really don't know what's going on here, do you?" the man spat. "KM is _my_ titan. I paid good money to have her modified like that, got a strong neural link going on and all. On a good day, we didn't even need the helmet to communicate. And now she's dying." It almost sounded like his voice was about to crack with those last few words. 

They nodded, even though they didn't understand half of what he'd said. No Goliath, but a titan then? They had only heard of this creature in passing, let alone ever seen one in the flesh. Whatever this thing— this _titan_ was, it clearly meant a lot to him.

"I want to help you," they repeated. They really did want to help him, even if their knowledge of wound care didn't extend far beyond 'stop the bleeding, cover wounds, find help'.

"You can't," the man hissed. He let his head fall back again, his chest heaving with every painful, shuddering breath.

"Let me at least know in whose company I'm dying."

"My name is Blóð Hundur," they stated plainly.

His head turned toward them ever so slightly as he repeated their name, trying it out. "Blóð Hundur. You're… you're not from around here."

They clenched their jaw. "No, I am not."

They didn't wish to discuss their past with the man any further. Their demons, their _andskoti_ , were theirs only, their responsibility to work through, their responsibility to control. Luckily, he seemed to notice that.

"I'm Viper," he started, then uttered a disapproving grunt. "No, fuck it. I'll be dead soon, won't do any harm. My name's Boone."

"Good to meet you, Boone," they said softly, sitting back and folding their knees up to their chest.

"Likewise, Blóð Hundur." He sighed again, a physical reaction to his body being completely aware of the fact his condition was deteriorating fast. "What's a kid like you do around here?"

They could have taken the easy way out, to keep people away from them as they always did, by responding that they were a hunter sent by the gods, doing as the allfather willed them. But they did not want to deprive a dying man from a bit of distraction from his bleak reality.

"What do you mean, 'around here'?" they asked tentatively.

Boone chuckled darkly. "That machete you were pulling on me is hunting grade."

They guiltily let their right hand fall down from the top of their machete's sheath, like they were caught red handed. So he _had_ noticed.

"No offense here, kid, but you don't exactly look like an engineer."

They looked at themselves, their dusty olive coloured coat, their grey cargo pants with mismatched knee pads. "You are correct. I am a hunter."

"But there's not much hunting to do around here," Boone continued. "Some prowlers that the IMC experiments on, maybe, but no big game. Nuh-nothing for someone who wields a two feet long machete."

He was getting awfully close to a truth they still struggled to admit to themselves.

"Perhaps," they said. "Perhaps not. I feel like I am better fit to judge that."

"You're right, kid." Another sigh.

The flapping of wings behind them signalled Artur finally deciding he wasn't scared of the wounded stranger and returned to his human companion.

Suddenly, in the corner of their eye, they saw the metal beast— the titan?—come to life.

They jumped up, machete ready, but what good would it do against a creature of steel and glass that was probably almost a hundred times their weight? It didn't have a visible weak spot, they wouldn’t stand a chance.

It rose to its hind legs, it was on one knee, and its single eye rolled around wildly until it focused on Artur first, and on them second.

"Protocol three," it spoke in a feminine, yet not quite human, voice. It sounded like it was warping time around the vowels of its words, parts repeating, parts missing.

"Easy, Kim," Boone said, weakly raising his hand. "This one's good people."

The titan looked at Bloodhound, at him, then its kneeling leg buckled under its weight and it fell down again with a deep rumble. Artur gave a disdainful caw and landed at Boone's feet, pecking his beak at the thick soles of his boots.

"Artur, _no_ ," they hissed at him.

It suddenly struck them it could have been them.

The prowler attack they had to endure yesterday could have gone completely awry. If they had been left wounded, barely alive, Artur dying at their side like Boone's steel companion was now... Gods, they didn't even want to consider that last part, whispered a few words of thanks to the Allfather that Artur had not been involved in the fight.

A soft murmur came from Boone's helmet. He slapped the side a few times before finding the button he was looking for, his movements uncoordinated. More inaudible talking, from this distance it sounded like someone was submitting a particularly agitated voice log. Maybe it was multiple people having a conversation over the ether, they genuinely couldn't tell.

Bloodhound looked back at Artur, who had since lost interest in Boone's heavy boots and had started to dig at a small rodent's hole in the ground.

Then, very suddenly, Boone's hand grabbed their collar.

They hadn't seen it coming, they had been too distracted between keeping tabs on the man's titan and Artur.

They were pulled close to his visor. Their breath hitched in their throat. They couldn't reach their machete again, not this quickly, oh, they had gravely misjudged the situation, they wouldn't—

"Take my tags," he hissed between clenched teeth. "Take my tags, take my helmet, and get off planet."

… what?

"I do not understand what you—" they started.

"It's not a question," Boone said. "Shit is about to go south. I just got a transmission from— oh, it doesn't matter. My colleagues suffered the same fate I did. This is some serious shit, kid. Like, 'the mountains might blow the fuck up' shit."

He released their collar, they crawled back from him instinctively, not even bothering to pull their machete again.

He unzipped the top of his orange jumpsuit, reached under the zipper, and retrieved two polymer dog tags. They dangled lightly as he handed them to them.

They looked at the tags with fascination before they understood he actually wanted them to take them. They took the tags in their palm. _LT_ . _G_ . _R. BOONE_ , the name on the very top of them read.

"But what about you?" they asked. "How will people identify you?"

He chuckled darkly, patted the ram skull logo on his chest. "They will. Don't worry about that."

He managed to wrestle himself upright once more. "Take my tags and my helmet. Take one of the lifeboat pods on the ship, there's bound to be a few functional ones…" He leaned his head to the side to cough once more, less powerful each time. "Take a lifeboat pod, set course for Hemera, to the shuttle center, and tell them you're me and that you'd like to be taken off planet. The tags and helmet should be enough proof, but if they don't believe you, show this."

He retrieved a small throwing knife from one of the compartments on his sleeve and handed it to them hilt first. They took it from him and looked at it with unadulterated fascination.

It wasn't just any knife, it was enhanced, there was a light glow coming off the edges of the blade, there was a small screen at the very top of the hilt. It was heavy in their hand, heavier than a throwing knife of that size should have been. It was undoubtedly modified, fortified with technology.

"Push the top and throw it onto a surface," Boone instructed. "It will show the heat signature of your prey when it's hidden from view. You’ll probably get good use out of it, and if not… pry it open and learn the technology. You’re a smart kid, you’ll figure something out."

They nodded slowly, still utterly enchanted by the knife. "Thank you."

He needed help in removing his helmet, and even though he wore a balaclava underneath (against sweat and heat, presumably?) which covered most of his face, it was obvious how bad his condition was. His skin was clammy and pale, his light eyes had sunk deep into their dark sockets. 

"Go to the pods," Boone instructed, his eyes not finding theirs anymore. "No more hanging around. Go."

They were so conflicted. He had helped them, he could have killed them but he didn't, he had helped them instead. They had been a complete stranger to him less than half an hour ago, and yet he had helped them. He was dying, they were going to live, and yet _he_ had helped _them_. It wasn’t fair.

They wanted to thank him again, but he noticed their hesitance, patted the p2016 that was lying next to him again. "Don't make me force you to go."

They walked backwards, the helmet under their arm, looking for words, looking for anything to thank him again.

Boone raised his hand from his lying position, a silent farewell. They raised their hand back, even though he couldn’t see it. Then his arm fell down, and he didn’t move anymore.

They did not know why they had to turn the dial for their mask’s oxygen flow up even higher when they turned around to find a functional pod in the smouldering ship.

\---

EPILOGUE

It was a rainy afternoon outside of Ramya's workplace. It hadn’t been hard to find, in this overcast weather, the neon signs out front were just about as extravagant and loud as she was.

Ramya had offered to sharpen Bloodhound’s hunting knife, free of charge. They had happily accepted. The knife had dulled over the last year, and during the last installment of the Games it had been damaged even more. They had been trying to deliver a final stab of mercy to an enemy, but they had deflected their attack and they had slammed it onto a rock, dulling the tip significantly.

To their surprise Ramya actually wasn't tinkering away at one of her projects when they stepped inside. Normally she was almost always there outside of the games. She was successful, had lots of clients, lots of work to do. They admired her work ethic.

The inside of her workplace was a complete and utter mess, though. They knew _their_ quarters were wildly decorated, but at least there was some kind of organic order to it, it made sense, in some unconventional way, even though it was still a major fire hazard.

This? This was a brightly coloured chaos of graffiti and wires and wrenches. If objects could scream, they guess this room would be a cacophony. They were really, really glad they hadn’t brought Artur, or otherwise Ramya would miss approximately nine bolts and three screws by the time they were finished here. Again.

"Ramya?" they asked. "I am here to retrieve my hunting knife."

From the way their voice resonated in the room, they knew no one was there. Ramya was loud and her presence could be sensed a quarter of a mile away, and she always had the loudest, wildest metal music blasting from the speakers. Now only the room itself was loud. She definitely wasn’t here.

Had been, though. They found a half full mug of coffee, steam still curling up from it. She hadn't been away for long.

They wandered around her workplace, uncertain of what to do. They had to go back into the arena tomorrow, and while they were heavily against infringing on someone's privacy, they really did not want to have to bring another knife that they didn't know the weight and behaviour of this instinctively. They just wanted their own trusted knife back.

Maybe it would be in an obvious spot, on top of a table? She wouldn't mind them taking it, as long as they didn't actually go through her drawers.

Then again, what was an obvious spot in this workplace? All the benches and tables were covered in loose parts, blueprints, energy supplies and even some welding supplies. Wires ran from flickering circuitry boards all the way to small generators, to small glowing cores they didn't even know the function of.

They carefully looked under a blueprint, their movements slow and deliberate enough to not make any of the hundreds of loose parts on this table fall off. Nothing.

There was a gigantic structure at the other end of the room, covered by a yellowed cloth. It was taller than anything else in the room, taller than them, gods, it almost reached up to the ceiling. They had to actively fight the urge to take a peek under the cloth, they were immensely curious. Would it hurt? Would it hurt to just lift _one_ corner of the fabric and take a look underneath?

Right at that moment, Ramya's communication system rang with an incoming call and they just about jumped out of their skin, leaping back from the structure.

Recovering from the startle, they chuckled to themselves. Something about having a guilty conscience.

It rang three, four, five times, then the machine gave two beeps indicating a voice message being left.

"Oi Ramya, it's me. Had the titan delivered to your workplace. Bloody hassle that was. Thing is so heavily modified it's an entire ton heavier than most Northstar class titans from that time. Just try 'n see what you can do with it. Preferably repair it into an operable state. Might have to scrap it for parts, though. I checked, the datacore lock is broken, can’t really access it without using brute force. ‘N even then it's practically useless, there's still a neural link 'n the cerebral connectors are fried since _someone_ has been using it without a helmet. That bloody idiot. Should've left him in Hyperion. Anyway, just tell me if you need a fresh datacore, eh. Got plenty lying around. Good luck."

**Author's Note:**

> ooooooooooooo cliffhanger
> 
> this fic was brought to you by two emotions called "i am so mad that 2 seasons later they still didn't explain who boone was" and "i fujkcin.,,,love titntanfell 2 so much," so i write my own bloodhound lore now. i wanted viper/boone to send bloodhound off to hyperion to get off planet but like... i also wanted to kind of keep the mystery surrounding the city, as a place they would never be able to return to, because it wouldnt be the same anyway. maybe it's better this way.
> 
> TONS of headcanons about the planet typhon in this one, as well as general titanfall 2 headcanons and bloodhound headcanons, of course. the writers didn't give us a lot to work with so any story that deals with our dearest bloth beyond a superficial level needs headcanons :o) if anything's unclear, please ask!


End file.
